


I Only Send You My Invitation

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Arthur looks deeply into the eyes of the man he loves and thinks, <i>‘They will never find your body.’</i></p>
<p>Arthur and Eames get into a fight over the proper care of Arthur's Santoku knives and then talk about their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Send You My Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: [ladderax (allnuthatchforest)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest) and [yjudaes](http://yjudaes.livejournal.com/) who are both more probing and thorough than US law enforcement officials.
> 
> Title is a lyric from The Beatles' "You Never Give Me Your Money" and "Carry That Weight", two songs that I listened to many times while writing this.
> 
> Concrit is welcome.

Sometimes, Arthur looks deeply into the eyes of the man he loves and thinks, _‘They will never find your body.’_

Perhaps _murder_ is too strong a word to describe what Arthur wants to do to Eames right now. To be honest, Eames is not the real focal point of Arthur’s frustration; it’s this fucking argument they can’t seem to stop having. It sneaks into their interactions at the least convenient times, like a daimon with a life and a will of its own.

Arthur grabs a fistful of silverware from the basket in the dishwasher, pulls open the drawer next to the sink and begins to place each utensil into its respective nook, as if putting everything into its right place will help focus his thoughts.

“So let me get this straight. You’re saying it’s _my_ fault that you put my hundred and fifty dollar Santoku knife in the dishwasher instead of hand washing it. Because I distracted you. Even though I haven’t been here for the past three weeks.” Arthur pushes the drawer shut with his hip, walks back to the dishwasher. “Of course. That makes complete sense.”

Eames gives up on trying to finish his dinner. He drops his fork onto his plate, stands up and walks over to the rubbish bin. “I hate it when you do this,” he says.

“Do what? Repeat your words back to you so you know exactly how ridiculous they sound?” Arthur scrubs at the grease stain on their lasagna pan so hard that his whole body shakes.

Eames reaches his arm around Arthur to slide his plate into the soapy water, obviously trying to keep his distance. “No. I hate it when you try to nitpick my logic in order to win the conversation when you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“So you agree that what you’re saying is completely illogical?”

“For fuck’s sake, Arthur.” Eames pushes his palms into his eyes, leans against the countertop opposite Arthur and crosses his arms over his chest. “Next time I’ll just keep my mouth shut when something’s on my mind, yeah?”

Arthur sighs, looks down into the dirty water and says, “You know that’s not what I want, Eames.”

“Then stop fucking cross-examining me.”

“I’m not, Eames. I just—” Arthur pulls his hands out of the water and grabs a dishtowel off the counter. He turns to look at Eames and says, “I just don’t know what you want me to do at this point. The job’s over. I’m home-—”

“Four days later than you said you’d be. And not a word from you in that time.” Eames’ eyes are clouded over, his mind obviously elsewhere. He’s likely reliving the days during which he didn’t know whether Arthur was alive or dead.

The thought makes Arthur’s gut clench in sympathy. He takes a deep breath and says, “Contacting you could’ve put you in danger.”

“You should have done it anyway.”

Arthur stares at Eames and blinks, replaying what Eames just said in his mind in order to be sure he heard right. “Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘you should have done it anyway’. And next time, you will. I don’t care if it—”

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m done with this conversation.” Arthur tosses the dish towel over his shoulder and walks out of the kitchen and into the foyer. He grabs his coat off its hook, throws it on and then turns around and walks back into the kitchen.

Eames is still leaning against the counter, staring down at the tiled floor. He looks up when Arthur enters. “What are you doing?”

Arthur opens up the utensil drawer, grabs the box that contains his knives, and tucks it under his arm.

“Arthur-—”

“I’m throwing these fucking knives away.” Arthur says over his shoulder as he walks away. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

Arthur jogs down the three flights of stairs to the entryway of their building, pushes open the front door and turns left. He tosses the box of knives into the first dumpster he sees, and then he keeps walking.

~

The mark had been ex-CIA and a veteran of Project Somnacin. Arthur had looked into his medical and military records, even his family medical history. Their chemist had spent weeks tailoring the compound in order to ensure the mark would stay under and pliant. Of course the danger inherent in extraction is that one never knows how the mark is going to react to the compound until the plunger on the PASIV is depressed.

The compound had worked, and the extraction had been successful. But the sedative had worn off too soon. As soon as their time under was up, the mark was awake and furious. He’d broken their extractor’s nose and nearly knocked Arthur unconscious with a lawn chair before escaping. Arthur and his team had lain low in a safehouse forty miles outside of Stuttgart for four days until one of Arthur’s contacts had given them the all-clear to cross the border.

Arthur’s pretty sure his hip bone is bruised, possibly his femur. He’s got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow during which he’ll tell Dr. Dekker that he fell down the stairs. Dr. Dekker will sigh, pinch the bridge of his nose and not ask questions.

Arthur walks down Marnixkade, alongside the canal. Boats covered in anticipation of winter are bobbing in the water, and occasionally a bell trills before a cyclist goes roaring past him. When he reaches Westerpark, Arthur realizes that he’s walked almost a mile and curses himself for being inattentive. His thigh is starting to throb, and he’s not looking forward to walking an additional mile back to his and Eames’ apartment.

He’s also not ready to go home yet. He’s been meaning to talk to Eames about something that could completely change the nature of their relationship. When he first thought of it a couple months ago, Arthur was sure that Eames would be receptive to it. These days he’s not so sure.

Arthur has never been able to predict Eames’ reaction to anything with one hundred percent accuracy, but over the past couple months, Eames has become particularly unreadable. He touches Arthur more often but speaks to him less. He studies Arthur’s profile when he thinks Arthur isn’t paying attention, as if he’s waiting for Arthur to answer a question he hasn’t vocalized.

And then, while Arthur was on the job, Eames had called him almost every day just to chat about whatever was on his mind: Dutch curse words and Grey Herons and “that time in San Sebastian when that woman made a pass at you, and you tried to explain to her that you weren’t straight. Do you remember that? You actually used the word ‘straight’, and she thought you were talking about your cock. And then she smiled and offered to give you a hand with your problem, as any Good Samaritan would.”

San Sebastian was the first place he and Eames went together off the clock. It was just a short train ride away from Barcelona, where they had just finished a job, and they both had some excess adrenaline to burn off. Spending time in each other’s company while not working was a sort of dare that neither of them thought the other would go through with.

They explored the city on foot, lay on the beach until sunset and buried themselves in the sand to keep warm. They drank too much and stayed in bed past noon. Every day they promised themselves they’d leave the next morning, and every afternoon when the front desk called their room, Eames would pick up the phone and mumble, “Staying another day. Cheers.” And then he’d roll back over and nuzzle his face into the already beard-burned skin on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur smiles at the memory and at the way it makes his heart beat faster and sends blood rushing into his fingers and his toes. He turns around and begins the long walk home.

~

When Arthur gets back to their apartment, all of the lights are still on. He clicks them off (the overhead foyer lights, the lamps in the living room, the track lighting in the kitchen) on his way to the bedroom.

The doors to the en suite balcony are open, and Eames is sitting outside in one of their wrought iron chairs, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and his reading glasses. He’s holding a book and not reading it, instead looking down at the street below.

He looks up when Arthur walks out onto the balcony, pulls his glasses off his face and taps the frames against the glass-topped table in front of him. “Did you know the Bergens have a son?”

“They do?” Arthur walks forward and sits down in the chair across from Eames.

“I believe so. Either that or they’re swingers.” Eames looks across the street at the apartment where the couple in question lives. “But he looks like Frederick. Same curly blonde hair. Same flat nose.”

“Maybe he’s one of Frederick’s kids from another marriage,” Arthur says.

“It’s possible. Erna doesn’t seem terribly fond of him.”

Arthur follows Eames’ gaze to the darkened windows across the way. “How come I haven’t seen him?”

“He’s only there early in the mornings, usually around five or six.”

Arthur frowns, turns his head to look at Eames.

Eames slides his glasses back onto his face, sighs and says, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Eames—”

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier. About you contacting me when you’ve gone to ground, that is,” Eames says, abruptly switching subjects, an indication that he has no interest in talking about why he’s been awake before dawn the past few days. “I’m not apologizing for putting your knives in the dishwasher. Honestly, Arthur, I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything let alone remember—”

“I know. I know.” Arthur slides his chair over so that there’s no table and only a couple feet of space separating them. He reaches out a hand, decides it’s too early in the conversation for placating touches, and pulls it back. He folds his fingers together between his knees and clears his throat. “I was thinking... I think I’m gonna start taking fewer jobs.”

Eames pulls his glasses back off, tilts his head and studies Arthur’s face. “Why?”

“Because—” Arthur takes a deep breath, and he has to look down at his hands and away from Eames’ searching gaze in order to get through this next bit. “Because I want a life with you, Eames. A real life, not just four or five months out of the year in between jobs. I don’t want our life together to be stuck _in between_ anything. I don’t want deadlines; I want time.” Arthur shuts his mouth before his words take a turn into the realm of shitty poetry. “If... I mean, only if that’s what you want too.” He forces himself to breathe and looks up.

Eames has gone completely still, and he’s staring at Arthur with red-rimmed eyes, as if he’s been forcing himself not to blink. A smile flickers across his mouth. “You’ve been practicing that, haven’t you?”

Arthur laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, for the past couple months.”

Eames nods, considering Arthur’s words. “And what happens when you start to get restless?”

“You’ve started taking fewer jobs. And you’re worse at relaxing than I am.”

“Just because I’m not going under doesn’t mean I’m not working. But your job doesn’t transfer as easily to the real world as mine.”

Arthur considers this and remembers what his high school career counselor once told him. “I’d be a great Human Resources Manager.”

Eames brings his hand up to his face and chuckles into it. “Christ, you’d be a fucking _terrifying_ HR man. If I were just out of uni, and had to face you on the first day of my new job, I’d probably piss myself.”

Arthur smiles. “Tax forms are serious business.”

Eames pulls off his glasses again, twirls the temple tip between his thumb and forefinger. “So we’re going to give this a fighting chance, then? Us, that is.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like to.”

Eames smiles, small and warm and almost shy. He places his glasses on the table and stands. “Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to give you this, then.”

Arthur’s about to ask what “this” is before Eames disappears into their bedroom. He hears the double squeak of Eames’ underwear drawer opening and closing and Eames chuckling and muttering to himself, “Christ. Should really be wearing trousers for this.”

Eames ambles back out onto the balcony and sits down across from Arthur. He leans forward, and Arthur sees that he’s holding a small wooden box, about the size and shape of one that would usually hold an engagement ring.

Arthur’s grateful that Eames is looking down at the box instead of at him because he’s sure that several conflicting expressions pass across his face in the space of a second.

Eames turns the box in his hands, clears his throat. “I—I picked this up a couple months ago, when I went to Dublin to see my mum after my last job. I asked her for it, of course. I didn’t just nick it.” He flicks it open, and inside couched in velvet is a worn silver band engraved in a design that Arthur can’t quite make out since Eames won’t stop fiddling with the box. “It was her dad’s, my grandad’s. It’s—I know it doesn’t look terribly impressive. It’s not even platinum. It’s—”

“Palladium,” Arthur says. “It was used during World War II because platinum was being used to make weapons.” It’s then that the full emotional impact of what Eames is doing really hits Arthur.

Eames has two older brothers and one older sister, all of whom were married after Eames’ grandfather died. Which would suggest that Eames’ mother has been saving this ring for Eames. Arthur has met her a couple times, and he’s never been sure if she approves of him. But he knows how much she loves her son. He also knows that she’s an exacting and logic-oriented woman that grounds Eames when his imagination takes him too far afield. She wouldn’t have given Eames this ring unless she was certain his feelings were more than just a passing fancy.

Arthur looks up to see that Eames still has his head down, pointedly avoiding eye contact. His voice wavers slightly when he says, “This isn’t a formal-—proposal. It isn’t a formal _anything_ , really. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about. A lot. Same as you have.” At last, he looks up, and the box settles in his hands, open towards Arthur. “Whenever we decide we’re ready, I want you to have this.”

Arthur smiles, and although Eames hasn’t asked him a direct question, he says, “Yes.”

Eames doesn’t even bother to suppress the huge sigh of relief that makes his chest expand and contract visibly. “Thank fuck.”

Arthur laughs so loudly and suddenly that it comes out as a snort. He covers his mouth, slightly embarrassed. Eames beams at him shamelessly, takes one of his hands and presses the box into his palm. “Here,” Eames says, “Now it can live in the drawer with your pants.”

Arthur leans closer to Eames, close enough that he can feel Eames’ breath on his temple as he takes the ring out of the box to get a good look at it. It’s engraved with a simple, almost geometric wheat pattern, a symbol of fertility and eternity. The former wouldn’t necessarily apply to him and Eames, so Arthur figures they’ll have to make do with the latter.

He doesn’t put it on, simply because he doesn’t feel he’s ready to yet and because, “Wow. Your grandpa had huge fingers.”

“Mmm. We’ll have to get it adjusted at some point.” Eames reaches up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Arthur’s ear, and he lets his hand linger there to tickle the shell of it with his fingertips.

Arthur shudders and realizes that it’s not just due to Eames’ touch. The temperature has dropped significantly in the past couple hours. He nudges his forehead against Eames’ and says, “Why are you only wearing underwear when it’s forty degrees outside?”

Eames shuts his eyes and groans. “I made a bit of a mess of myself while you were gone.”

“Doing what?”

Eames tilts his head so that their noses slide together. He says against Arthur’s lips, “Digging your fucking knives out of the dumpster.” His tongue darts out lick to Arthur’s bottom lip, and then he clamps his teeth around it and sucks. Hard.

Arthur moans, slides the ring back into the box and places it on the table before wrapping his arms around Eames’ neck and lunging forward to straddle Eames’ thighs. “You fucking hate those knives. Why would you do that?” He grinds his hips against Eames’, suddenly desperate.

Eames presses his thumb to Arthur’s chin to keep his mouth open as he licks the seam of Arthur’s lips and the soft, wet skin just inside his mouth. “Because. You love giving me detailed instructions that I won’t follow.” He slides his hand up into Arthur’s hair, grabs at the roots and tilts Arthur’s head back to nibble on his neck. “And I love not following them.”

Arthur slips his hand into Eames’ briefs, palms his cock briefly and then reaches down further to tug gently on his balls. “And because you love me.”

Eames’ hips buck, and he growls in Arthur’s ear, “Damn right, I do.”

They fuck right out there on the balcony. Arthur doesn’t even bother to take all his clothes off; he just kicks off his trousers and his briefs and opens up the top few buttons on his shirt so that Eames can suck on his nipples while they stroke each other’s cocks.

Distantly, Arthur is glad that their balcony is partially enclosed and that their neighbors across the way are asleep. He’s sure that they’d never look at him the same way again if they saw him like this, his bare legs threaded through the arms of the chair and his toes pressed into the concrete floor of their balcony so that he has better leverage to thrust his cock into Eames’ fist.

Eames slides his middle finger between Arthur’s lips and says, “Get it wet for me, love.” Arthur does, wrapping his lips around the digit and sliding them all the way down to Eames’ second knuckle, groaning at the salt and tobacco he can taste on Eames’ skin.

Eames takes his finger from Arthur’s mouth and slides it between his ass cheeks. Arthur moans, tilts his hips back and leans forward, opening himself up as much as their position will allow. He loosens his grip on Eames’ cock and flicks his wrist faster, gathers the precome pooled at the tip in Eames’ foreskin and slides it down the shaft with his thumb and forefinger.

Eames presses his finger against Arthur’s hole, and both of them gasp when the tip slips inside. Arthur grabs Eames’ hand, places it on his ass and uses it to spread himself open. “Fuck me,” he says as he wraps his hand around both their cocks and jerks them off together.

“Christ, Arthur.” Eames’ fingers dig into the flesh of Arthur’s ass as he slides his finger deeper. He starts a slow rhythm, twisting and crooking it every few thrusts. Arthur wants to ask for another, but he’s too tight and too far gone to stop what they’re doing and go get lube. He pumps his hips, picking up Eames’ rhythm and gripping their cocks tighter. Eames’ thighs are beginning to tremble underneath him, and his hips are starting to jerk at random intervals. He’s close.

The pad of Eames’ finger grazes Arthur’s prostate, and Arthur gasps, “There. Right there, Eames. Fuck, don’t stop.” He pumps Eames’ cock faster, lets go of his own so that he can fuck the crease between Eames’ balls and his thigh. He leans forward and presses a trail of sucking kisses up Eames’ neck. When he reaches the spot just behind Eames’ jaw, he pulls Eames’ earlobe into his mouth with his tongue and sucks.

Eames’ entire body jerks, and he comes with a groan that makes the skin under Arthur’s lips vibrate. His come trickles down Arthur’s knuckles and slides down the shaft of his cock, and he keeps fucking Arthur with his finger as he shudders through his orgasm.

Arthur is curled in his lap at this point, panting and fucking his own fist and writhing on Eames’ hand. Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s and swipes his thumb across the head of Arthur’s cock. Arthur shuts his eyes tight and presses his face to Eames’ chest and comes, clenching around Eames’ finger and pulling it deeper into his body.

As soon as Eames catches his breath, he runs his cleaner hand through Arthur’s hair and chuckles. “I think I’ll continue to put your knives in the dishwasher if it always results in fantastic sex.”

Arthur perches his chin on Eames’ shoulder and says directly into his ear, “You’re impossible.” He smiles. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hate you.”

Eames turns his head and kisses the tip of Arthur’s nose. “The feeling is mutual, love.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [只属于你的、我的邀请](https://archiveofourown.org/works/900915) by [harukana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harukana/pseuds/harukana), [sneaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui)




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